


The World Will Follow After

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-27 09:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: “Well, to start,” Clarke says dryly, ticking off her fingers. “There’s my name. Then came the hair cut, and the baggy clothes, and my mom fudging some papers for me because no one can know that my stepbrother bailed on something yet again, so—”“You’re posing as a guy in a prestigious all boys academy,” Raven cuts in. “Got it. Any other impossible feat you wanna try out? Stealing Luna’s herbal tea? Challenging Anya to a knife fight?”Posing as her cousin for a summer arts program shouldn't be too hard, really. Except for the part that it's in a all-boys school, and that her roommate is none other than Bellamy Blake. (Or: a She's The Man au.)





	The World Will Follow After

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna be like, 'pretend this whole concept is totally realistic and works, guys!' but then I realized that it's a she's the man au, and that the entire movie was 99.99999% unrealistic in the first place, so... just have fun with this, guys.

__________________

As with most of her terrible life choices, Clarke’s decision to enroll at Ark Academy’s summer programme is  _mostly_  spontaneous.  

Her decision to go in Roan’s place, though— considering their all boy status— is entirely calculated.

“Not to encourage you or anything,” Raven points out, her voice crackling down the line, “but if you pull this off, I’m buying you your weight’s worth in tequila.”

She snorts, wrangling her phone out from under her shoulder up to her ear. It’s almost impossible to ease the door to her dorm room open with an armful of boxes  _and_ her phone in hand, but she manages somehow. “And here I thought the ultimate prize was your respect,” she says wryly.

“You already have it. Most of the time, anyway.”

“That’s reassuring of you,” Clarke mutters, her attention already shifting to the room before her. It’s small and cramped and smells overwhelmingly of lingering cigarette smoke, but it’s nothing she can’t handle. Distantly, she notes the placard hanging above the joined desks,  _Griffin_ and  _Blake_ under it in bold font. The mysterious roommate, apparently. “Have you considered going into motivational speaking? Because you really should.”

Raven huffs out a laugh at that. “It’s an option, but don’t change the subject. Are you there yet?”

She flops down onto the nearest bed before she answers, taking the one facing the window. She should really change the sheets first, or get to unpacking, but it’s hard to summon the energy to considering her two hour drive over to campus. “Yup.”

“Oh c’mon, that’s all you’re going to give me? A one word response?” The irritation is plain in her voice, and she finds herself suppressing a smirk at the thought of it. “I want details. Like, of the  _how-the-fuck-are-you-pulling-it-off_ variety.”

“Well, to start,” Clarke says dryly, ticking off her fingers. “There’s my name. Then came the hair cut, and the baggy clothes, and my mom fudging some papers for me because no one can know that my stepbrother bailed on something yet  _again,_ so—”

“You’re posing as a guy in a prestigious all boys academy,” Raven cuts in. “Got it. Any other impossible feat you wanna try out? Stealing Luna’s herbal tea? Challenging Anya to a knife fight?”

“I’m posing as a guy in a prestigious all boy academy for the  _summer,_ ” she bites out, propping herself up on her elbows. “For a _f_ _ew_ art classes. I’ll be fine.”

“Says the girl with a roommate.”

“Who’s not going to catch on,” she says reflexively, the rest of her argument dying in her throat at the sound of a pointed cough.

She stills, her gaze landing on the figure hovering by the door. From where she’s sitting, he seems intimidatingly large, taking up the space of the room without even being in it— all bronzed skin and dark, messy hair and grumpy scowl.

(Under ordinary circumstances, she’ll definitely be checking him out, but with everything that’s going on,  _well._ She’s not going to chance it.)

“Hi,” she croaks, jabbing at her phone screen to end the call. Raven’s going to kill her for that, but it’s a better option than exposing herself on the first day. “You must be my roommate.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just studies her, his expression unreadable. “The one and only,” he says finally, shouldering his pack higher up against his shoulder. Then, with an almost imperceptible dip of his chin, “I’m Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” she replies, sitting up to offer him her hand. “Clarke Griffin.”

He looks down at her outstretched palm,  _smirks._ There’s no mistaking the contempt in his eyes now, or his air of thinly veiled hostility. “Griffin,” he says, tilting his chin mockingly. “Related to Abigail Griffin, by any chance?”

It’s an effort to keep from reacting at that, her fingers curling into fists involuntarily. “That’s neither here nor there,” she says evasively.

“It is, considering that’s probably how you’re my roommate when I applied for a single,” he snaps, folding his arms across his chest. “Let me guess, you get special privileges just because your mom’s on the school board?”

“I  _didn’t_ —”

“You know, I thought it was a mistake when I first got the email. Then I saw your name, and it all just clicked.” He shrugs, gesturing at her face vaguely. “Plus, there’s the resemblance. What,” he says, barking out a sharp laugh, “you guys decided not to vacation it up in the Hamptons this summer?”

She grits her teeth, forcing back the retort scorching at her throat. It’s counterproductive. It’s  _stupid._ She shouldn’t have to prove herself to anyone, let alone a  _roommate_ that she’s not going to see beyond this summer. “I guess the yacht was all filled up.”

He makes a low noise. “Shame.”

“Yeah,” she says, getting to her feet and shoving past him. The pure shock that flits over his face is strangely satisfying, as is the way he turns to watch her go, his stare burning into the space between her shoulder blades. “It is,” she says darkly, making sure to slam the door on her way out.

 

+

She makes it a point to avoid him after that, which shouldn’t be difficult considering the minimal amount of time she spends in their room.

But he just  _keeps_  showing up everywhere she goes.

He’s at the coffee cart every time she drops by before her Western Architecture class, one hand wrapped around his travel mug and the other fanning through the pages of some book. Then it’s the campus bookstore, a pencil between his teeth as he fumbles through his pockets for spare change. Once, she even spots him at the isolated carrel by the fifth floor of the library, which effectively ruins the whole element of it being  _her_ secret hiding spot.

(It’s official, at this point: there has to be some sort of karmic justice going on that makes it impossible for her to avoid him.)

So she can’t say she’s surprised when he shows up at her Greek Art and Archaeology class, really.

He does a small double take when he sees her, composure slipping for a split second before he collects himself, the corners of his lips twisting up into that smug,  _insufferable_ smile. “Griffin.”

“Blake,” she shoots back. Then, because she can’t help herself, “You in the wrong place, or…?”

It doesn’t seem to faze him. If anything, his smile grows  _bigger,_ which just makes her want to punch him right in the mouth. “I’m exactly where I want to be,” he declares, sliding into the seat next to hers. His arm bumps against hers, overwhelmingly warm, sending a jolt of electricity racing through her.

(She jerks back at the sensation, regrets it almost instantly when she glimpses the confusion in his eyes. It’s nothing, barely a brush of his arm on hers, but she feels strangely overheated all the same.)

Bellamy doesn’t bring it up, thankfully, just jerks his chin towards the sleeves covering her wrists. “You’re wearing a sweatshirt? In this heat?”

Her hand goes up instinctively to smooth at the cropped ends of her hair. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that she’s pretending to be someone else. “I get cold easily.”

“Unsurprising.”

There are plenty of ways to interpret his response, but Clarke knows for a fact that none of them are  _good_. The rage she’s been tamping down bursts forth in her chest, explosive and torrential and unstoppable.

“Here we go again, another Clarke is a stone cold bit—  _bastard_ reference. How  _original_. You’re an asshole, you know that?”

He sputters— actually  _sputters,_ a little— and she tries not to take too much pleasure in the way his nervousness is making her feel. “That’s not—”

“And you know what?” she cuts in, grabbing at her notebook, fumbling blindly under the desk until her fingers land on the strap of her bag, “if you want to be an asshole to me when we have to live together, fine. I’ll handle it. But don’t expect me to sit around and take it when I don’t have to.”

She stomps off before he can get another word in the edgeways, dropping into the nearest seat she can manage before her knees give out on her. The unnatural hush over the lecture hall probably means that everyone’s heard the whole humiliating encounter, but she can’t quite bring herself to care.

Releasing a shaky exhale, she flips her notebook open, keeping her gaze determinedly pinned onto the page before her. It’s fine. It’s not like anyone else’s opinion matters, anyway. She’s here to  _learn._ To get better at art, to improve her craft, and—

“Can I sit here?”

It takes a second for the words to register, another for her to realize that it’s directed at her. She blinks, taking him in. Dark hair, rueful smile. Nice eyes.

“Sure,” she manages, returning his smile. She doesn’t have to force it, and the realization makes her feel a little better. “I’m Clarke.”

“Monty,” he beams, stretching his hand out for her to shake. Then, with a conspiratorial grin, “Let me guess: you hate your roommate.”

She can’t quite hold back her snort at that. “That obvious, huh?” she says, and just like that, she makes her first friend.

 

+

Keeping up with the pretense that she belongs at Ark is, ironically enough, not as difficult as Clarke thought it would be.

Sure, showering at five in the morning can get pretty exhausting, as is having to walk around in baggy sweatshirts in the dead of summer— but all things considered, it’s really not that  _hard._ The constant paranoia about giving herself away has mostly ebbed, even in her minimal interactions with Bellamy, and she’s actually starting to enjoy herself now, which is… surprising.

So she’s really not concentrating too hard when she gets home after a late night study session with Monty— peeling off her sweater in favor of a clean one, shucking off her sweatpants for a loose pair of boxer shorts. She’s still thinking about the C she got on her Greek interpretation paper, and how she has to call her mom tomorrow, and how she should treat herself to croissants and coffee in the morning when she hears it.

The sound of a key turning in its lock. The lock to the room she’s currently standing in,  _half undressed,_ in a all boys school.

“Shit,” she squeaks, diving for her bed in the split second she hears the door creak open. Her sheets are a messy tangle by her legs, but thankfully she has the foresight to yank them up over herself just as Bellamy walks in.

There’s a beat before she hears the  _click_ of the door easing shut, his footsteps faltering at the end of her bed. “Clarke?”

She forces herself to go still, slamming her eyes shut.

The moment drags on, the silence unnerving. A part of her is almost tempted to feign waking up; to break the unbearable tension building in her chest, but just as she shifts, she hears him sigh.

Then he’s moving once more, his tread light as he switches off the lamp by her bed.

It’s about the last thing she’s expecting.

Carefully, she cracks one eye open, mostly just to make sure she’s not imagining it. Nope. Her light’s off, and in the half darkness, Bellamy Blake is retrieving her discarded clothes off the floor, his movements deft and sure as he places them on her desk, neatly folded.

He folded her clothes.

The thought of it makes her pulse stutter, the beat erratic and disjointed to her own ears. It’s… disconcerting.  _He’s_ disconcerting. It feels impossible to reconcile the Bellamy from before with this— quiet, and thoughtful, and  _pensive,_ almost— his fingers tapping a restless beat on her desk, the other lifting his phone to his ear.

It’s probably bad form to eavesdrop, but it’s not like she can do anything about it, so she stays where she is, staring at the shadows flitting across the walls.

“O?” His voice breaks on the word, startling her out of her stupor. It’s a question, pleading in a way that she didn’t think Bellamy was capable of. “Hey. It’s, uh. It’s me. Sorry for calling so late. I just wanted you to know that I’ll be visiting this weekend, and,” he stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. There’s frustration in his eyes, but distress, too; a kind of vulnerability that makes her ache. “It’ll be good if you didn’t just spend the entire time ignoring me,” he says, biting at his lip. Then, so softly that she has to strain to hear it, “I miss you.”

(She’s not sure why she’s holding her breath throughout the rest of it— at his quiet admonishment for her to remember to eat; his half hearted goodbye— but when his lamp finally goes out, she’s the furthest thing from sleepy.)

 

+

The first thing she realizes upon waking is that Bellamy’s still in the room.

The second is that sleep is  _way_ too generous a word to describe the fitful, restless dozing she’s been doing all night. Hell, even a nap would have been better than this if her pounding headache is any indication.

Suppressing a groan, she rolls onto her side, squinting at his figure eclipsed in the morning light. He’s standing by his bed, already dressed, tapping away on his phone.

The sight of it brings back a visceral rush of memories, of whitened knuckles and the crack in his voice and her clothes in a neat pile on her desk. She can feel her mouth go dry at it, at the new side to him she witnessed just last night.

“You’re staring.”

She snaps out of her reverie at the sound of his voice. “What?”

“You,” he says simply, arching a brow over at her, “ _staring._ It’s new. Though I’ll admit, it would be a lot easier to go back to ignoring you if you would stop looking at me.”

He’s defensive, as per usual, but there’s something about his tone that lacks its usual bite. Grimacing, she shifts under her covers, suddenly remembering her half naked (and precarious) state. “G’morning.”

“Huh. That’s new, too.”

“I’m in a good mood,” Clarke grumbles, letting her head thump back against her pillows. “When did you get in last night?”

She can feel the weight of his stare on her cheek; his surprise in the way he straightens. “Since when do you care?”

“Since you decided to spend the entirety of last night on the phone.” The words slip out before she can help herself, making her wince. “I mean, I wasn’t like,  _listening_ or anything,” she backtracks, spotting his expression, “but. I don’t know. You were just— it seemed to go on for a long time.”

 _Fuck._ She closes her eyes for a brief second, resisting the urge to rub at the insistent pressure by her temples. It’s official,  _she’s_ the asshole between the two of them now.

It’s quiet for a while, his jaw clenching and unclenching in short bursts, his gaze on her. Scarcely daring to breathe, she lifts her chin, forcing herself to meet it.

“That’s,” Bellamy says finally, the muscle by his cheek twitching, “neither here nor there, is it?”

It takes a second too long for her to catch the reference, a echo of her own words all those weeks back. She gapes, scrambling for a scathing response to throw right back at him, something cutting, but to the point, and—

“I promise I’ll keep it down next time,” he says coolly, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “And in the meantime, why don’t you work on your paper for Greek Art? It looks like it could use some work.”

“You  _read_ it?”

“You left it out,” he counters, managing a flippant shrug. “And besides,” he adds, a venomous smile curling at his lips, “it’s not like we’re doing the whole privacy thing, right?”

“Apparently not,” she snarls, flipping him off as he strides away, leaving the door wide open in his wake, leaving her no choice but to wrap herself in her blanket, shuffling over to the door to slam it shut.

 

+

(His paper, she later realizes, is on his desk too, as if left there deliberately. Face up, and bearing a huge red A along with a scrawled  _good work!_ over it.

What a fucking  _asshole._ )

 

+

It takes her a few days to come up with a new plan of attack, and a whole other hour to execute it.  

(Ordinarily, it would take her half the time to achieve any of this, but there’s something to be said about the fact that a bulk of it is spent actually locating him. It’s ironic,  _especially_  with his knack for showing up just weeks earlier.)

 _Karmic justice,_ Clarke reminds herself grimly, before flopping down onto the ground next to him. “Hey.”

He barely glances up from his book. “You want something?”

“Why is that the assumption every time I attempt to initiate conversation?”

“Because you’re not the type for pointless small talk,” Bellamy says flatly, marking the page by folding down a corner. She makes a face at it, which seems to please him. “C’mon. Out with it, Griffin.”

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. What she’s suggesting is tricky, which means going in with caution is probably the best strategy. There’s no doubt that a repeat of their last interaction would be disastrous. “Okay, so I have a proposition for you.”

“This is getting less appealing by the minute.”

It’s surprisingly easy to ignore his running commentary when there’s a larger task at hand to focus on. “So,” she barrels on, stretching her legs out onto the grass, “you know that I haven’t exactly been doing well in Greek Art, right?”

He snorts, the sound dismissive. “That feels like an understatement.”

“I got a C, it’s not like I’m  _failing,_ ” she says sharply. The lazy lift of his lips at that just infuriates her further, but she reigns her temper in, somehow. “Clearly, I need some help.”

“So you want mine?” he laughs, shaking his head. “Shit, you must be desperate. Why can’t you just ask Monty for help?”

She blows out a impatient noise, rolling her eyes. “He’s getting a B average in this class. I  _need_ an A.”

“Ask your mom to pay for a tutor, then.”

“Can’t, that requires her to be actually speaking to me this month,” Clarke snaps, feeling strangely satisfied by the way he reels back at the revelation. “Trust me, I’ve exhausted my options here, okay?” she sighs, rubbing at her temples. “I need your help. But I think you’ll find this arrangement beneficial for you, too.”

He doesn’t say anything to that right away, just looks at her— steady and perceptive in a way that unnerves her, makes her feel distinctly untethered. “Okay,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

The relief that rushes over her makes her knees go a little weak. “Alright. So, here it is,” she starts, clearing her throat, “you’re having lady troubles, right?”

“I’m  _what_?”

“As in, not lady _l_ _ady_ troubles, but problems with a lady in your life,” she amends, narrowing her eyes over at him. He seems at a loss for words, which means he’s right where she wants him. “Jaded ex girlfriend? Jaded  _current_ girlfriend? Whatever it is, I can help you with that. Especially as someone who,” she stops, cursing internally at her near slip-up, “has a lifetime of knowledge interacting with girls.”

“A lifetime of knowledge,” Bellamy echoes, disbelief dripping off every word, “interacting with girls.”

She lifts at her chin, levels him with a challenging glare. (It’s an effort not to cringe at the embarrassing things spilling off her lips, but she’s way too committed to back out now.) “That’s right,” she declares, pitching forward on her elbows. “A  _lifetime,_ Blake.”

He huffs out a laugh, the sound surprisingly brittle. When he finally speaks, it’s resigned. “You’re not going to stop bugging me about this until I agree, aren’t you?”

“The odds of that are pretty high, yeah.”

He shakes his head once more, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like  _goddamn infuriating_ and  _fuck_ and  _I’m going to regret this._ (Or the holy trinity of relenting, as Clarke likes to think of it.)

“Fine,” Bellamy grumbles, closing his eyes. “Just— I’d appreciate if you didn’t drive me to fucking murder by the end of it.”

She has to bite at the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from showing at that. “No promises,” she tells him, nudging at his ankle with hers.

He sighs, nudges right back. “I wouldn’t have expected any less.”

 

+

There’s no other explanation for Raven calling the very next day for an update, except that her friend might be mildly,  _mildly_ psychic.

“So let me get this straight,” she demands, her voice strained in a way that suggests she’s just about three seconds away from losing it, “you’re not just running one long con, you’re running  _two._ ”

She frowns at the reproach in Raven’s voice. “Technically, my arrangement with Bellamy isn’t a con,” she points out, leaning back against her seat. “I am planning on helping him with his girl problem, you know.”

“Oh, you mean as Clarke Griffin, his roommate of the same gender?”

“Considering he has the same insight as Clarke Griffin,  _your_ best friend, I would say that it doesn’t matter either way,” she retorts. “I mean, c’mon, Rae. It’s really not a big deal.”

That earns her a small, disapproving huff. Then, in an entirely matter-of-fact manner, “It is if you get caught and sent home.”

Her chest goes tight at the thought of it, making it hard to breathe. “That’s not going to happen.”

It goes quiet for all of a few minutes after that, and this time, when Raven speaks, it’s with uncharacteristic gentleness. “I really hope so, babe.”

“Yeah,” she says, willing herself to speak past the sudden lump in her throat. “I hope so, too.” There’s really not much else she can say to that, so she opts for a subject change instead. “How are you holding up on your end?”

“Fine,” Raven groans, punctuating the statement with a loud  _thump_ . It sounds suspiciously of metal striking metal, which means she’s at work, which  _would_ be reassuring if she didn’t have to operate life-threatening machinery whilst talking. “Hey, don’t bring this back to me, though. You’re the one with the news. How are things going with this Bellamy arrangement?”

“Slow,” she says, just as Bellamy walks in, hair askew and clothes rumpled. It’s a good look on him, unfortunately, as most things are. “But I think I can speed up the process.”

“Are you planning on sharing with the class, or do I have to guess?”

“None,” she gets out, moving her phone slightly away from her ear. That seems to get his attention, at least, his gaze curious as as it darts over to her. “Hey,” she chirps, grinning over at him. “So, my best friend was wondering if you had any plans to get started on our little arrangement.”

Distantly, she thinks she can make out Raven’s cackle on the other end, Bellamy’s brows rising in response.

“Huh,” he says, after a beat. “So does your friend get invested in all of your blackmail attempts, or am I special?”

His tone is teasing rather than combative, and she tries not to think about how much she likes it on him. “It’s not blackmail if you’re getting something out of it too.”

“Life advice from a known expert on women,” he says dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “How can I resist?”

“Exactly,” she replies, without missing a beat. “And look, I’m not trying to rush you or anything, but my next paper is due in two weeks.”

He nods, leaning back to rest his weight against her bedpost. “I know. Same class, remember?”

“I try not to,” she says, in the most saccharine sweet she can muster. Surprisingly enough, he  _laughs_ at it, low and deep and delighted, sending a shiver racing down her spine.

“Fine, you made your point,” he concedes, retrieving his phone from his pocket. “Just give me a second, and I’ll be good to go.”

“Oh, so we’re starting tonight?”

“No time like the present,” he shrugs, the movement stretching his thin t-shirt even tighter across his shoulders. (Not that she’s  _looking,_ or anything.) “You ready?”

She swings her feet off her desk, straightening in her seat. “We’re going out?”

“It’s the best way to learn,” he says, shouldering his backpack once more. “Trust me, you’ll be thanking me later.”

A snort escapes before she can help herself. “I mean, I guess if you put it like  _that_ …”

“Would you just move your ass?”

“Fine,” she mutters, lifting her phone back to her ear and scrambling for a pair of socks with the other. “Rae, I gotta go.  _Someone_  finally agreed to work on their end of the agreement.”

“I heard,” she says, perfect pleasant in a way that instantly puts her on edge. “One quick thing before you do, though: were you  _flirting_ with your roommate?”

It’s a good thing Raven can’t see her, considering the way she flushes almost instantaneously at her question. “What? No _._ ”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but it sure sounded like—”

“Your mistake, Rae.”

“— I mean, he was totally flirting back, but—”

“I really have to go now,” she interrupts, the thrumming of her pulse so loud that it’s a wonder she can hear anything beyond it. “But I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Bye.”

She hangs up before Raven can get another word in edgeways, shoving her feet into a pair of sneakers before following Bellamy out into the dark.

 

+

It’s not like she knows what to expect with Bellamy leading the charge, but she’s still surprised when they pull up into the parking lot anyway.

“Not to question your teaching methods here,” she starts, trailing him out of the truck and into the cool night air, “but you do realize that breaking and entering is illegal, right?”

He glances at her from over his shoulder, a small smile quirking at his lips. “Who said anything about breaking and entering?”

She can’t help it, she snorts. “I don’t know,” Clarke says dryly, mounting the steps up to the building looming before them, his hand brushing hers with every slight movement. “Seems like a natural assumption, considering the Ark’s art gallery closes at six.”

“Museum,” he says, with the slight raise of his brow. “The Ark’s Teaching Museum, to be specific.”

She eyes the pack he’s rifling through warily. “Well, knowing that really doesn’t change the fact that we’re breaking in.”

“We’re not breaking in,” he grumbles, yanking out a ring of keys. They’re comically small in his hands, and he fumbles with them a little before inserting the key into the lock. “Newsflash, Griffin: I’m literally being paid to be here.”

It dawns on her in a flash. “Wait, you’re the nighttime security guard?”

“For three nights a week? Yeah.” He nods, pushing the door open with practiced ease. “I’m not on duty tonight, technically, but I traded with Miller. You have two hours before the next guard comes in to relieve me.”

 _That’s not a lot of time,_ she tries to say, the words dying in her throat the second she steps in. Sure, she’s seen pictures of the place, but it’s different seeing it in person, somehow. There’s the high ceilings, and the stained art windows, and paintings on the walls, half obscured in shadows—

It only occurs to her that she’s gaping when she catches Bellamy’s eye; the glint in his gaze and the amused tilt of his lips. She flushes, heat flooding her face and setting her skin alight.

“Shut up.”

He raises his hands up in mock surrender. “I didn’t say  _anything._ ”

“Yeah, well. I felt it.”

“Sure,” he says, in a way that makes it sound like the complete opposite of the word. “You wanna look around, first? Get a feel of the place?”

She grunts out a absent noise in response, already drifting off to look at one of the paintings. She’s pretty sure he’s saying something else about the lights, but it’s beyond her to concentrate on anything else now. There’s only the canvas before her, and the way it looks in the half-light, and—

He nudges lightly at her ribs, snapping her out of it. “You know, your whole staring at stuff in silent awe thing is ruining the lesson plan I came up with,” he says quietly.

A laugh bubbles out of her, unexpectedly loud in the quiet. “Right, far be it for me to  _inconvenience_ you.”

“Just a little.”

“I make it a point to,” she says, before she can chicken out. “I thought you gathered that by the first day.”

“The first hour,” he deadpans, folding his arms across his chest. Then, clearing his throat, “Now, c’mon. Focus. What do you think?”

It’s a simple question, one that she’s answered countless times in papers and in visits and to friends, but she finds herself faltering under his scrutiny all the same, her mouth going dry.

“Minimal brush strokes,” she says mechanically, “meant to emphasize clear, hard details. In terms of color—”

“No,” he interrupts, a crease forming between his brows. “As in, what do _you_ think of the painting, Clarke. Not the art style, or the brush strokes, or,” he huffs, making a vague motion with his hands. “What do you feel when you look at it?”

“As in, right this minute, with my warring irritation competing?”

“Cute. I’m trying to help you, remember?”

The guilt that rises up within her at the reminder is instantaneous. “Yeah, I know,” she mutters, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Sorry. I’m just— out of practice. I used to do this a lot more with my dad, but I started looking at things differently, after.”

(She can feel the weight of his stare on her cheek, curious and hesitant. There’s a part of her that’s tempted to shy away from it, to demur from the question in his eyes, but there’s something about him that makes her want to  _try_ , at least a little.

Maybe it’s something about art, about not wanting to be dishonest in front of it.

Or maybe it’s just him.)

“He died,” she says, releasing a shaky breath. “Hit by a drunk driver. And, I don’t know. It just seemed easier to look at everything more objectively, you know? Especially art, because it was one of the things we used to do together. It’s stupid, I know, but—”

“Clarke,” he says, so firmly that she startles slightly at it, turning to face him. “It’s not stupid.”

She swallows, meeting his eyes; warm and brown and ringed with enviably long lashes. It’s hard to argue with him when he’s looking at her like that, all intense and focused and achingly,  _achingly_ soft. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says, shooting her a small, tight smile. There’s something unreadable about his expression, though, his jaw working as if trying to steel himself for something.

She opens her mouth, the question already forming on her lips just as he speaks, “My sister.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“She’s in juvie,” he says, barking out a sharp laugh. “She’s in juvie, and she hates me.”

It takes her a moment to understand it, to fit together the pieces of what he’s told her to the phone call that night. “Oh,” she says, for the lack of a better thing to say. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” he agrees, with the shake of his head. “In retrospect, art is a lot simpler, huh?”

“Sure, albeit with a lot more incest.”

It’s his turn to snort now. “Oh c’mon,” he grins, reaching over to brush his knuckles over the side of her cheek. “This could be platonic, right?”

“Not when it comes to this piece,” she retorts, trying to ignore the burning trail he leaves in his wake, the way she leans into his touch almost subconsciously. “I mean, just look at it. It’s practically brimming with sexual tension, okay? And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

She senses rather than sees his smile; the bump of his elbow against hers a comforting weight. “Go on,” he says, “I’m listening.”

 

+

It’s easy, after that, to become friends with Bellamy Blake.

He works a few odd jobs throughout the day, so they hang out most nights when he’s not at the museum. Sometimes, she drops by his various workplaces in the day, too, but she always feels bad about distracting him at work.

Because that’s a  _thing_ about Bellamy, apparently: his inability to leave her alone, especially when they’re in the same space.

“You do realize that this is the fifth time you’ve been over here in the past hour, right?” she says, biting at the inside of her cheek to suppress a smile. “Pike is going to act on that threat and dock your pay.”

The look that he shoots her is distinctly withering. “He would, if there was anyone else who gives consistent shifts like I do.”

“Murphy?”

“That would require him to _actually_ show up for the shifts he consistently signs up for.”

“Fair enough,” she grins, reaching over to steal a sip of his coffee. He’s always coming up with the weirdest concoctions—mostly for entertainment value—but they tend to turn out pretty good. “Anyway, I’m heading out. I have laundry to get to, and a paper to write after.”

He plucks the cup out of her grasp, downing it in three gulps. “Okay,” he says, easy as can be. “I’ll come with.”

She stops, faltering mid-step. “What?”

“Laundry,” he repeats, cocking his chin. “I was planning on going after my shift too, so this works out pretty nicely.”

A strangled squeak escapes before she can bite it back, her thoughts going into overdrive as she scrambles to rectify the situation. “Wait, you— you’re done with your shift?”

“Jasper is here, so yeah.” He nods, his brows bunching together as he studies her expression. “Why, is something wrong?”

“No!  _No._ ” She manages a small laugh, the sound nervous even to her own ears. “I just thought you had a late shift.”

“Nope,” he says, flashing her a quick smile as he works at the knot of his apron deftly, “I’m all yours tonight, Griffin.”

She  _doesn’t_ choke on her breath at that, but it’s a near thing. That’s another thing she’s learnt about Bellamy: his capacity to make anything sound flirtatious, to the point where it’s impossible for her to play it off as him simply being friendly. Clarke’s not sure if they’re ever directed to anyone else, but she’s been on the receiving end of way too many of these kind of throwaway comments not to notice.

(What’s more worrying is how much she  _likes_ them, but she’s— she’s just not going to dwell on it, really.)

“Fine.” Swallowing, she hitches her laundry bag higher up against her shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest. “But you should know that I have a really specific system for laundry, okay? One that you shouldn’t comment on.”

“Right,” he says, falling into step next to her as they head out into the heat, cutting through the field by the engineering block towards the laundry room. “So what  _I’m_  getting is that you suck at laundry, and that you won’t be able to handle me critiquing you on it.”

“That’s— no one sucks at  _laundry,_ Bellamy.”

“Murphy begs to differ. Did you know he once turned every single one of his boxers pink?”

“Murphy is the exception for most things,” she reminds him grudgingly, dropping her bag over a unclaimed machine. The room is deserted, which she can’t help but be slightly grateful for. If he’s going to catch her out, at least no one else would be around to witness it. “I’m just particular, okay?”

He snorts, giving a wry shake of his head. “If you say so,” he hums, hefting his clothes out of the bag and sorting them with practiced ease. “Even though I think you’d be better off just admitting it.”

“I have nothing to admit to,” she counters, dipping her hand into her bag. She can feel him peeking from the corner of his eye, watching her with blatant curiosity.  _Fuck._ “Stop staring!”

“It’s kind of hard not to, considering how you piqued my curiosity. I mean, Jesus, Clarke, how bad can it—”

She lobs a sock over before he can finish the sentence, catching him right in the face. Then, in one smooth motion, she dumps the contents of her bag into the machine, slamming it shut.

He’s still gaping by the time she sets the machine to rinse, expression incredulous as she clambers up, sitting on the top of the lid to keep it from rattling. “You  _heathen._ ”

“So I’ve been told,” she says airily, leaning back to rest her head against the wall. “But it  _is_ time efficient.”

“Yeah, and missing one sock,” he huffs, the sound transforming into a laugh when it bounces off her cheek. “Don’t come crying to me when all you have are mismatched pairs.”

“I’ll just borrow yours,” she says, chucking it back over into his pile, and making him scowl.

(She spends the next few minutes trying to get him to do the Clarke Griffin Method and failing miserably, though he  _does_ come up onto his machine, too; his knee warm against hers as they bicker the whole way through.)

 

+

There are several other close calls in the span of two weeks.

He walks in on her retrieving tampons from under the floorboards, for one, leaving her to make up some excuse about having found it whilst attempting to stash her booze. Then there’s nearly bumping into him while she’s sneaking out of the shower, and him showing up on yet another one of her laundry runs.

The lengths that she’ll go to hide it at this point are pretty fucking ridiculous, really, but it’s not like she has a choice. She committed to this, right? She knew what she was getting into the second she took Roan’s spot.

Still, it’s hard to remember any of it when they’re together; when he’s telling her about the stories behind certain stars, his voice low and even and adoring, or when they’re working together in companionable silence, his arm brushing up against hers every time he adjusts his glasses.

Or when he’s looking at her like  _that_ , apparently, all sleepy and rumpled and… pissed off.

“Jesus, Clarke,” he rasps out, squinting at her from under a cocoon of sheets. “It’s three in the morning.”

She scowls, jabbing at her keyboard with increasing ferocity. “I am aware, thank you.”

“And you’re aware that you finished your essay two nights back, right?”

“I finished the first  _draft_ two nights back.”

Bellamy makes a exasperated noise at that, mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath as he drops his face back into his pillow. (It’s unfair that he can look good even like this: stubble lining his jaw and hair sticking up unevenly from the back.) “Your first draft was perfect as it is.”

“Yeah, if you’re holding it to a subpar standard,” she mutters, scrubbing a palm over her face. Her eyes are  _aching_ from staring at her screen, fingers cramping from typing, and she can feel a migraine steadily building with each passing minute. “I’m just— I’m sorry, okay?” she sighs, kicking her sheets off. “I’ll head down to the kitchen to finish up.”

She’s pretty sure she hears him say something to that, but she’s out of the room before she can fully comprehend it, stumbling down two flights of stairs.

The kitchen is mercifully empty by the time she arrives, the space still smelling faintly of chocolate and coffee. Brownies, probably, knowing Monty’s side business. Grimly, she settles her laptop onto the table, unwinding the power cord—

Only to realize that it’s not long enough to reach.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she breathes, staring down at the cord. Strangely enough, there’s something akin to  _laughter_ bubbling up in her chest; part disbelief, part hysterics.

Snorting, she claps a hand over her mouth to stop the sound, doubling over—

“Clarke?”

“I’m fine,” she says automatically, wiping at her eyes. “I’m— it’s the cord. It won’t reach, and it shouldn’t be  _that_ funny, but it kind of feels like the universe taking another swing at me, which makes it all the more—”

Bellamy cuts her off with a quick squeeze to her shoulder, his touch reassuring. “Hey. _Hey._ It’s fine, you just have to shift a little, okay?” he says, sinking down onto the ground next to her. “See? It works if you sit here.”

“On the floor?”

“I’m sorry, do you want your dignity or your grade?”

“The latter,” she mutters, leaning forward to press her forehead against his shoulder. His bare skin is blisteringly warm, and she thinks she feels him smile before he pulls away, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into her skin.

“I wouldn’t have expected any less,” he grins, rising to his feet. “So here’s what’s happening: I’m going to make us ramen, and you’re going to work on your paper. Then, we’re going to eat, and edit some more,  _and_ go to sleep by five, latest. Sounds fair?”

She blinks, trying not to fixate on the flex of his biceps as he deftly reaches for a bowl, a packet of noodles. “Yeah, for me. But you shouldn’t,” she swallows, lacing her fingers together to steady her hands, “you don’t have to stay up for me, Bellamy.”

He glances over at her, the smallest of smiles quirking at his lips. “Who says it’s for you?”

“You—”

“Maybe I’m just hungry.”

“But—”

“Write your paper, Clarke,” he says, soft, and she closes her eyes instinctively when she feels his hand brush over her head, sweeping a stray strand away from her face.

(It’s intimate,  _close_ in a way that she didn’t think she’d find with anyone, let alone her roommate whom she hated just months back.

Bellamy, who still has no idea who she really is. Bellamy, who she’s  _lied_ to, over and over again.)

Guilt clogs at her throat, making it hard to breathe, but she forces the words out anyway. “Thanks, Bell.”

He hums a small noise of acknowledgement, oblivious; his fingers skimming at her skin once more and making her shiver. “Anytime, Clarke.”

 

+

Monty finds her first.

“Grades are up,” he says, jogging up to her with all the nonchalance of someone who knows they’ve aced it. “I would have checked yours, too, but I didn’t think—”

She jerks out of her seat, already shouldering her bag. “Okay.”

“— seriously, I mean I can always look  _now,_ though—”

“It’s fine,” Clarke interrupts, waving him off as she makes her way up the stairs, her pulse hammering against her ribcage. It shouldn’t be as much of a big deal as it is, but she can practically feel the sweat slicking her palms, her breaths growing shallow as the bulletin board comes in sight.

There’s already a small crowd gathering by the board, so she has to push her way to the front. Her gaze catches on the series of names: there’s Jasper Jordan and Zeke Shaw and of course, Bellamy Blake _,_ with an  _A_  right by his—

Then she sees it.

A small squeak slips out before she can help herself, and she has to bite at the inside of her cheek to silence it; lips stretching into the widest,  _stupidest_ of grins. There it is, tangible proof that she did it, that this is what she’s meant to be doing.

And there’s really no one else she wants to celebrate it with than Bellamy.

She surges through the crowd, pulling her phone free as she does. She’ll text him, or maybe give him a call, and they can go out for a celebratory drink or two—

“Clarke?”

It’s almost impossible to spot him amongst the people streaming up towards the teacher’s lounge, but then someone shifts, and there he is. He has his glasses on, his hair a mess from running his fingers through it constantly, and the rush of fondness that floods her at it makes her breath catch.

(It’s not fair that he can have this effect on her without even having to  _do_ anything, really, but maybe it’s what it means to like someone wholly, as they are: just being with him makes her feel like there’s something infinite and sprawling and  _good_  in her chest.)

Bellamy takes a few steps towards her, brow furrowing and lips forming her name and she’s moving before she can comprehend it, her arms going around him as she collides into him, the surprised sound he makes echoing in her ears.

She means to pull away immediately, to laugh it off as a moment of excitement, of  _triumph_ , but then his hands are sliding over her back, holding her close; his chest rumbling against hers as he laughs.

“Let me guess,” he says into her hair, “good grade?”

“The best,” she grins, pulling back to look at him. His eyes are bright, his smile wide, and she has to resist the urge to press her thumb against the dip of his chin. “You too, by the way. We should celebrate. I’m thinking drinks to start off? And I don’t know, maybe laundry after, if we’re being adventurous. What do you think?”

He hesitates, arms dropping back to his sides. “I would love to, but I— I kind of already have plans.”

It’s not like they spend all their time together, but it still comes as a slight shock that Bellamy  _actually_ has a life outside of the bubble they’ve crafted over the summer. “Oh,” she says lamely, folding her arms across her chest. Then, because it’s the friendly thing to do, “Hot date?”

“Kind of, I guess? I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

“Right,” she manages, rubbing at her arms to ease the sting that comes with that. “So, is she coming down to campus, or are you heading out to meet her, or...?”

“Him,” he corrects, with the raise of his brow. She can feel his gaze on her, searching her face with a kind of intensity that makes her mouth go dry. “I probably should have mentioned that I’m pan, huh?”

She should look away, really, or make some sort of excuse; do  _anything_  else but stare at the crescent shaped scar by his lip, and the freckles splattering his throat, and the rise and fall of his chest, so close to hers.

“Huh,” she says, licking her lips. “So, not just girls.”

“No,” Bellamy says quietly, his mouth curving into another one of those smiles. “Not just girls.”

The way his eyes drop down to her mouth at that is enough to reduce her to a quivering, stuttering  _mess._ She stumbles back, a weak laugh escaping. “Well I should probably— I should go, then.”

He gives a small hum of acknowledgement at that, his fingers brushing against the small of her back as he eases past her. “I’ll see you later, Clarke.”

“See you,” she calls out, watching him walk away until he disappears out of sight entirely.

 

+

(It’s not like she goes out of the way to stay up for him, but she  _definitely_  breathes a lot easier when she hears him come in later that night.)

 

+

At this point, there’s no denying that she has distinctly non-platonic feelings for Bellamy Blake.

“I would say I told you so,” Raven says, grimacing, “but I think you might actually hit me, and I kind of like my face as it is.”

Clarke groans, dropping her head against the curve of her shoulder. It’s Saturday, which means Bellamy’s gone to see O. It’s also one of those rare days where Raven isn’t working, hence her coming over to commiserate.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” she mumbles. “Mostly because you have a really,  _really_  nice face.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be, I don’t just say it to just anyone.” Carefully, she hitches her knees up to her chest, angling her face away slightly so she can look at her. “There’s you, and maybe Wells, I guess.”

That earns her a scathing look on Raven’s part. “And Bellamy?”

There’s a part of her that’s almost tempted to deny it, just because, but she falters in the face of Raven’s knowing expression. “And Bellamy,” she agrees, heaving out a sigh. “Who I’ve essentially _lied_ to, all summer, and who’s going to  _hate_ me when he finds out.”

“Doubtful,” she scoffs. “From what you’ve told me, he sounds like he’s already half in love with you.”

It’s about the furthest from the truth as it can get, but she still flushes anyway. “Cute,” Clarke gets out, clearing her throat. “Anyway, my point is: I— I want to tell him, okay? I just don’t want him to hate me for it.”

There’s something akin to sympathy flashing in Raven’s eyes, which somehow just makes it worse. “You should,” she says, gentle. “Maybe you’re right, and he’ll get mad and never speak to you again, or maybe he’ll forgive you, but, either way…” she stops, shrugs. “It’s better than not knowing.”

It’s true, at any rate. Managing a watery laugh, she nudges at her arm. “Since when did you get so wise?”

“Since always,” Raven retorts, nudging back with enough force to make her wince. “Not that you listen to me, or anything.”

“Uh, what do you think I’m doing _now_?”

She brightens at that, seizing onto her forearm. “Wait. You know what you should do, though?”

“Listen to you?” Clarke replies dryly.

“I mean yes,  _that_ too,” Raven huffs, releasing her to make a impatient series of gestures with her hands, “but I also think you should make a grand gesture of it, you know? Do something nice for him before ‘fessing up.”

“So what I’m getting is that you think I should do something nice for him to soften the blow?”

“I mean…” she trails off, making a face. “Kind of, yeah.”

“Raven Reyes, everyone,” she grumbles, flopping forward onto her stomach so she can bury her face into her pillows and stay there the rest of her  _life_ , hopefully. “Secret romantic at heart.”

 

+

Still, it’s not like Clarke has any better ideas, so she finds herself texting him to come to the teaching museum once he gets back.

If Bellamy’s confused by her vague explanation, he doesn’t show it. And by the time she hears him pull up in the parking lot, she’s ready. Well, mostly ready, at least.  

She comes up behind him just as he approaches the door, getting onto her toes so she can clap a hand over his eyes. “It’s pretty cliche if I ask you to guess who, right?”

He’s close enough that she can feel his laugh rumbling against her skin, sending shivers through her. “Not as cliche as asking to meet in one of the most deserted places on campus,” he says wryly. “If you’re planning on disposing of my dead body, can I request you put me in water?”

“I guess you would make a extraordinarily good looking bloated corpse.”

“That’s what I keep saying.”

Huffing out a laugh, she drops her hands, taking a reluctant step back. He’s smiling when he turns to face her, though, and the sight of it comforts her slightly. “C’mon,” she croaks out, beckoning him with the tilt of her chin. “I have something to show you.”

“If you’re bringing me to look at some  _more_ art for extra credit,” he says, trailing after her, “I think I might actually have to kill you.”

She has to bite at the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “Maybe,” she says evasively, kicking a wayward tree branch aside to let him pass. “You’ll just have to see.”

“I mentioned that I’m bad with surprises, right?”

“Trust me,” Clarke says, as they emerge into the clearing: to the flickering candles, and the scattering of snacks and the books she swiped off his desk to hold down the ends of the picnic mat. “You’ll like it.”

He falters the second he spots it, his mouth falling open to gape. “Is that…?”

“Stars, books, and alcohol,” she finishes, ducking her chin to hide the flush of her cheeks. It feels embarrassingly  _sincere,_ somehow, and it makes her feel strangely exposed more than anything. “The trifecta of nerdiness.”

This time, his laugh rings so loud that it echoes throughout the space. “Shit,” he grins, running a palm over his face. “I’m that predictable?”

“Unfortunately,” she agrees, easing down onto the mat. “Sit. We’re drinking to the end of summer, and our grades, and—”

“Good friends,” he interrupts, his palm enveloping hers as he tilts the bottle over to take a swig, his eyes never leaving hers. “Unexpected ones.”

The intensity in his eyes makes it impossible to look away. She swallows, digging her nails into her palms to get the words out. A reminder, of sorts, to be brave. To let herself  _want_  someone, despite her need for caution and safety and predictability.

“I was hoping we could be more,” she says, pulling back and clasping her palms together to steady them. “But for that to happen, I— I have to be honest with you, first.”

Confusion flashes in his eyes, wariness quickly following. “Clarke?”

“You know who my mom is,” she manages, forcing a deep breath through her lungs. Steeling herself. “And you know that she’s on the school board. All that’s true, at least.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just regards with her with an indecipherable expression.

“But what you don’t know, is that I wasn’t— I wasn’t supposed to be here, in the first place.” She can hear her breaths escaping in a ragged rush, her palms growing slick with each word. “My stepbrother was. Roan King? He— goes by that, still, even after his dad remarried. Anyway, he bailed, like he always does, and my mom said our reputation wouldn’t survive another hit, so she—” she wets her lips, stopping to gulp for air. “My mom needed someone to fill his spot, and I wanted to go.”

She can feel him looking at her, his eyes roving from her face to her shaking hands and to the trembling of her lips. “And?”

“And,” Clarke says, lifting her chin to meet his stare. “It didn’t seem like a big deal for her to send her daughter to go in his place, instead.”

The silence that descends over them at that is  _deafening._ She’s not sure how long it lasts for, seconds or minutes or decades, with her heart in her throat and her head in chaos—

“Say something,” she whispers, squeezing her eyes shut.

He touches at her cheek; so light that she thinks she’s imagined it, at first, but when she opens her eyes, his thumb is at her jaw. “That’s all?” Bellamy says,  _conversational,_ almost, and it’s the casualness of it that snaps her out of her haze.

“That’s _all?_ ” she echoes, blinking. “Seriously? You’re not mad, or upset that I lied to you about being—”

“To be fair, I suspected it,” he interrupts, amusement creeping into his voice. “You did a bunch of weird shit to cover your tracks, remember?”

“Okay, that’s—”

“I mean, I didn’t realize it was  _this_ , exactly,” he says quickly, frowning. “But I knew you were hiding something.”

His hand is still on her face, his touch soothing, and when she leans into it, he doesn’t shy away. “But you didn’t confront me about it?”

Bellamy shrugs, the corners of his lips inching upwards. “I figured you would have told me, eventually. As we always seem to.”

She chokes out a watery laugh, the onslaught of emotions crashing through her making her go lightheaded with it: confusion and relief and overwhelming,  _overwhelming_ joy. “You have that much faith in me?”

“That,” he says, “and because it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you.” He averts his eyes, suddenly  _shy,_ and she feels a flood of warmth surge all the way down to her toes. “Which is, you know, funny, because—”

She kisses him before he can finish, threading her fingers through his hair, feeling him smile against her lips as he kisses right back, one hand cradling her face and the other resting at her hip. She grins, slides her palm down to grab his, moving it higher until he makes a strangled noise, drawing back.

“And here I thought you were just a really,” he breathes out a laugh against the side of her neck, planting a kiss there, “ _really_ pretty boy.”

“You’re one to talk, Bellamy Blake.”

He sputters at that, and it’s a effort not to laugh at his indignant expression, the way he can’t quite seem to stop touching her, even so— his fingers grazing her spine, his ankle against hers. “I’m  _not._ ”

“Right,” she says, and she can’t quite muster anything beyond a wide,  _stupid_ smile in response to his. “My bad. Not a pretty boy, just an idiot.”

She squeals when he surges forward in response, pinning her to the mat, his laughter bright in her ears. “Yeah, well,” he says, flicking at her nose. “Your idiot, in the foreseeable future.”

It’s, possibly, the best thing she’s heard all day. “Yeah,” Clarke tells him, liking the way the words roll off her tongue, the way it sings true, with everything that has happened. “In the foreseeable future.”


End file.
